When the house
is empty, the mind is seized with a desire — no, that is
too strong — a willingness to pour forth unmitigated rot,
which constitutes (in me) the true spirit of correspondence.
When I have no remarks to offer (and nobody to
offer them to), my pen flies, and you see the remarkable
consequence of a page literally covered with words and
genuinely devoid of sense. I can always do that, if quite
alone, and I like doing it; but I have yet to learn that
it is beloved by correspondents. The deuce of it is, that
there is no end possible but the end of the paper; and
as there is very little left of that — if I cannot stop writing —
suppose you give up reading. It would all come to the
same thing; and I think we should all be happier....